


John and the Red Room

by AceSailorKoshkaRayn



Series: John and the Red Room [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Dark John, M/M, Violence, Winter Soldier John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4887925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceSailorKoshkaRayn/pseuds/AceSailorKoshkaRayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock paused at the low hiss of breath, not moving away from the microscope. Drawing slowly up, he glanced over his shoulder but didn't yet turn around. "Who's there?"<br/>There was a distinctly familiar click, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose.<br/>"There's no reason to shoot me," he said, turning to face the intruder. "Especially considering you broke into a hospital, there's no way you could get out of here."<br/>The man tucked right inside the door chuckled darkly, twisting his wrist and vanishing the surprisingly small handgun under his wine- and oatmeal-colored jumper. "I could break into Buckingham Palace if I wanted to," he said, shuffling forward slowly. Most of his weight rested on an aluminum cane, and a dark red spot was already on the front right leg of his trousers.<br/>"Doubtful," Sherlock sniffed, chin tipped up as he watched the man -slightly too long hair, growing out of a military cut, just starting to curl around his ears, oversized jumper, stretched out in the wrong spots, ill-fitting trousers, probably stolen then- shuffle over to the large gray cabinet.</p><p>(That AU where John was part of the Winter Soldier project -as a test subject.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock paused at the low hiss of breath, not moving away from the microscope. Drawing slowly up, he glanced over his shoulder but didn't yet turn around. "Who's there?"

There was a distinctly familiar click, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"There's no reason to shoot me," he said, turning slowly to face the intruder. "Especially considering you broke into a hospital, there's no way you could get out of here if you did."

The man tucked right inside the door chuckled darkly, twisting his wrist and vanishing the surprisingly small handgun under his wine- and oatmeal-colored jumper. "I could break into Buckingham Palace if I wanted to," he said hoarsely, shuffling forward painfully slowly. Most of his weight rested on an aluminum cane, and a dark red spot was already appearing on the front right leg of his trousers.

"Doubtful," Sherlock sniffed, chin tipped up as he watched the man -slightly too long hair, growing out of a military cut, just starting to curl around his ears, oversized jumper, stretched out in the wrong spots, ill-fitting trousers, probably stolen then- shuffle over to the large gray cabinet. "It is locked, obviously."

The man merely held up a set of keys -Stamford's, he could tell by the weird little round mechanical thing dangling from it, something from something wars and maybe space- and proceeded to unlock the cabinet. Removing a bottle of antiseptic, several stacks of bandages and gauze, and a tiny vial of morphine (Sherlock internally jolted, because he hadn't known about those drugs), he set them on the nearest table and dropped onto a stool.

"Syringe," the man said, holding out a hand.

Sherlock bristled. "What makes you think-"

Instantly, the gun was back out and pointing unwaveringly at Sherlock's head. "Syringe. Now."

Grumbling to himself, Sherlock shuffled over and slapped a still-sealed and plasticked needle and vial into the man's open palm.

The man grunted in return, sighing at the bloodstain in his jeans, but tugged them down to his knees anyway. He cut through the layers of bandages, not bothering with unwinding, and doused the wound with the disinfectant.

Sherlock's eye twitched, though the man didn't even wince. "High pain tolerance, I see."

The man hummed, pricking the bottle cap with the needle with the ease of long practice. He drew out a full chamber's worth of morphine, jabbing it into the surprisingly hairless inside of his thigh.

Sherlock could tell he was aiming for the femoral artery, and if the subtle dipping and retightening of the mystery man's shoulders was any clue, he hit it. "You're going to put yourself into a coma," the detective decided to point out, leaning back against the nearest counter top.

"It will take a lot more than mere _morphine_ to put me out," the man said, almost sneering, as he pulled thin knife from his boot. After giving it a perfunctory splash of disinfectant, John started digging around in the hole in his thigh.

"Bullet wound?" Sherlock asked curiously, peering over despite himself. "How on earth did you get shot?" It was difficult to get a good read on the man.

"I prefer living," the man said, perfectly serious, not even glancing up from his work. Blood mingled with the extra disinfectant on the grey concrete floor. "I had someone coming after me. They are...no longer able to do so." He grinned then, something sharp and feral, with more teeth than lip. "They will not follow anyone any longer."

"Well that's...good, I suppose," Sherlock hummed, head cocked to the side. "Doesn't that hurt even a little?" he asked, after several long moments of nothing but silence, nodding at the wound.

"No," the man replied, popping out a metal pellet into his free palm.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "'No?' That's it, nothing else? What's your name?"

The man cocked his head to the side, regarding the other with an absent sort of curiosity. "Name?" he seemed surprised, one eyebrow arching high as he began wrapping his leg.

"Yes, name," Sherlock twitched his head to the side in an aborted gesture of irritation.

Inexplicably, the man grinned. He stood, shuffling his trousers back up his legs. "My name, he asks..." He turned to the door.

Sherlock scowled, miffed, and crossed his arms.

Pausing in the doorway, the man said over his shoulder, "once upon a time, Mister Holmes, my name was John. John Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you face-to-face." And he was gone.

Sherlock scowled at the man, hands clenched tightly at his sides. "Rude," he grumbled, turning on his heel and stomping back over to his microscope.

 

"Hey, Sherlock, have you seen my keys?" Mike Stamford asked, poking his head into the lab.

Sherlock waved at the table, where the keys were resting innocuously. "Left them here."

"...Thanks," Stamford said slowly, edging over to the table to tuck the keys into jacket pocket. "I...guess I'll just be...going, then..."

Sherlock flapped an impatient hand, returning to his slide -scrapings of blood off the needle the man had used.

 

Sherlock was momentarily derailed by the blonde man sitting on his sofa. "John...?"

He nodded, methodically putting a matte-black colored rifle back together on Sherlock's coffee table, interspersed with taking sips of tea. "I had come to pull together some loose ends," he said, sounding almost bored, checking the bolt to ensure a smooth slide. "But it seems you already had someone intent on ending your life." He nodded to three men tied together at the neck with what looked like shoelaces and a gun strap. All of them were unconscious.

"You came here...to kill me," Sherlock said, folding his hands in front of his lips. "Hm. You are...former military," he decided, wandering closer. He cocked his head to the side curiously. "Worked with them-"

"For them," John corrected, not missing a beat, face utterly blank. "I worked for them."

"...Right," Sherlock ducked a shallow nod, spinning to look at the unconscious men. "Extensive training, obviously," he flapped a hand about, gesturing to the scene around them.

(Somehow, not a thing had been disturbed, and Sherlock suspected that if Mrs Hudson had been downstairs she'd have been none the wiser.)

John arched an eyebrow. "Obviously, yes." He minutely adjusted one of the twenty-four throwing knives lined along the edge of the coffee table.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, though he hated to repeat himself. "The way you bear yourself, the cut of your hair-"

"Not the fact that you witnessed me digging a bullet out of my leg not six hours past?" John smirked, looking more amused than anything else.

"Well, that could have just meant that you were in some sort of probably illegal deal gone wrong," Sherlock shrugged, settling carefully on the edge of the couch farthest from his surprise guest. "That more suggests medical training, to me. You were a doctor in the army, probably. Front lines, tan...Afghanistan or Iraq? Also you received your training in...some cold country, Russia or Sweden, maybe."

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Brilliant, that. Not all correct, not all of the story, but...close enough. Astoundingly close, in fact, for someone on the Outside."

Sherlock frowned. There was something emphasized in that word, but he had no idea why.

"I can see why my handlers had you marked," John said, absently flipping the slim blade from his makeshift surgery between his dexterous fingers.

Stiffening, Sherlock glanced around the flat, one hand going to his mobile as if anticipating a text or call.

"Bugs removed," John said, pointing the knife to a pile of plastic and wire scrap. "Your brother really does like to keep an eye on you, doesn't he."

Sherlock couldn't help but stare at the scrap. "How many of the bloody things had he stuck in here?"

"Twelve," John said primly. "There may be a hole in the back of one of your kitchen cabinets now, though, I apologize for that."

Sherlock blinked. "Holy fuck."

John grinned unrepentantly, something distinctly wolfish in the expression. "I can see why my handlers had marks out on all you Holmeses," he said. "A PI, the leader of Great Britain, and the Quartermaster of MI-bloody-6. Remarkable, you three."

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock sniffed, chin lifted. " _Not_ a private investigator. And Mycroft only occupies a minor government position. And I don't have any other brothers, stupid."

John's grin went from wolfish to downright feral, his spine ramrod straight and his hands clasped in his lap. "Robert Mycroft Anthony Holmes, current age: forty-one. Occupation: head delegate of MI5."

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he bit his lip with sudden anxiousness.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," John continued, nodding his head to the man in some vague parody of deference. "Current age: thirty-four. Occupation: Consulting Detective. Only one in the world, in fact.

"Michael Tristram Gabriel Holmes, current age: thirty. Occupation: Quartermaster, head of Q-Branch of MI6. All currently...unattached."

Pressing slightly trembling hands against his lips, Sherlock stared straight ahead. "If...if you know so much, then why are we all still alive? If we're so dangerous, why haven't you offed us yet? You'd even have a perfect opportunity right here, right now."

"I no longer work for the Organization," John shrugged, flinging the knife in the direction of the other men. It hit one -he had just started groaning, regaining consciousness- hilt-first, directly on the temple, bouncing and slamming into the wooden floor not an inch from the soft place between his legs. "They weren't very happy about that."

"Were they the ones who shot you?" Sherlock asked, blinking wide grey eyes.

"No," John shook his head. "I got shot by America's version of MI6 -the 'Strategic Homeland Intelligence, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.'"

Sherlock squinted in thought. "SHIELD? Why would they trying to be kill you? Even if you did work for an enemy organization, it's not like you've not _obviously_ defected."

Smirking, John shrugged, glancing down at his empty mug and sighed softly. Heaving himself to his feet, he shuffled into the kitchen. "If I told you that," he called back, "then I would definitely have to kill you, and you're far too pretty to die just yet."

"...Thanks, I suppose," Sherlock frowned faintly. "What are you going to do now?"

"Probably vanish," John shrugged, returning from the kitchen with a full mug of tea. "Shouldn't be hard. There are plenty of identities floating out there that I can take."

Biting his lip, gaze flashing briefly to the unconscious men tied together a few yards away, Sherlock suggested slowly, "if... If you could, would you be interested in a flatshare?"

John paused, mug against his lower lip in preparation to take a sip. "A flatshare."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded seriously, hands clasped in his lap. He never had gotten around to taking off his coat or scarf. "I play the violin when I'm thinking -would that bother you?"

John arched an eyebrow, sipping his tea.

"Also sometimes I don't speak for days on end," Sherlock added, dipping his head in a brief nod.

Lips twitching in a sardonic grin, John replied, "I carry no less than six weapons with me at all times, and when I do sleep for longer than three hours I usually have hideous nightmares. I also may accidentally attempt to kill you if my..." he licked his lips, searching for a word. "If my programming slips, I want you to leave. Don't try to stop me, don't try to reason with me, don't try to snap me out of it. Leave."

Sherlock stared at him. "Programming."

John nodded. "Yes."

"...Ah," Sherlock nodded slowly, tongue dipping out to touch his lower lip. "How will I know if your, uh, programming slips?"

"You...probably won't," John sighed, shaking his head. "Because you'll probably be dead. Although I might register you as my new Handler, so there is that."

Sherlock tilted his head curiously. "And if that happens?"

"You are going to leave," John told him, "and I am going to secure home base."

Humming thoughtfully, Sherlock nodded slowly. "So...that means you're going to stay...?"

John broke into a sudden, surprised laugh. "Yeah, Sherlock," he smiled as he shook his head, sounding fond. "I'll be your flatmate. Suppose that means I'll need a job then, hm..." he frowned, lips pursed.

"You can be my bodyguard," Sherlock decided, jumping to his feet and striding back and forth. "I'll pay you, I'll pay you handsomely, so you can get yourself some more of those," he flapped his hand at John and his bloodstained jumper. "And also some trousers that actually fit you."

John smiled, propping his chin on his fist. "Alright," he shrugged. "I'll bite. And you should probably call that DI friend of yours to come and pick these fellows up."

Humming, Sherlock nodded, already pulling his mobile from his jacket pocket. "Hide your things," he said, texting away.

John hummed, gathering his 'toys' and vanishing into Sherlock's room.

When he returned, Sherlock stared at him. "Why are you wearing my clothes."

"Well, you need some reason for having a strange man in your flat, don't you?" John arched an eyebrow, tugging off Sherlock's scarf and coat, tossing them both haphazardly onto the couch. He tugged the man closer, quickly unbuttoning his shirt.

"Flatmate," Sherlock protested, squirming away, nose wrinkling. "Isn't that good enough?"

John arched an eyebrow, quickly reaching up and grabbing a fistful of thick, dark curls. "Think, dearie," he said softly, pushing the collar of Sherlock's shirt out of the way to get at his collarbone. "Are you really the type of person to invite strange men to live with you on such short notice? You've been gone all day, how would a possible interviewer get in? Mrs Hudson is next door, she couldn't have let anyone in. But someone you invited in last night, now, that's not entirely unexpected, now, is it? Perhaps I was an experiment, hm? An interesting creature you saw passing in the street, a doctor-soldier with a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor, yes?"

Sherlock shuddered despite himself, hands flexing against John's hips. "That seems...a little excessive, don't you think? Couldn't you just be some pretty thing I picked up in a cl-" he gasped, eyelashes fluttering as John latched onto the curve joining his shoulder and neck, working it firmly with his teeth and tongue. "Ohmygoodfuck _club_ ," he wheezed.

"Bo-ring," John sang, marking red lines up the side of Sherlock's throat. "You should know that by now. And besides, it gives me a great start for a cover." Stepping back, he licked his lips to admire his handiwork. He smirked.

Sherlock quickly rebuttoned his shirt, wiping the spit away from his neck with an annoyed grimace.

"Chew your lip," John told him, raking his fingers through Sherlock's hair to ruffle his curls. "Look thoroughly snogged, because only prostitutes fuck without kissing, and John Watson is no prostitute."

 

"So the freak got a boyfriend, I see," Sally said, arching a dark eyebrow. "You sure you took these guys down here? Awful tidy to have been a fight scene just a bit ago."

John shrugged innocently, hands tucked into the front pockets of Sherlock's borrowed dressing gown. "I have some military training," he admitted, rubbing at his left shoulder. "Since I'm so short, I had to learn the best way to take down larger opponents."

Sherlock smirked arrogantly, crossing his arms and leaning against the mantle.

Sally's eyes narrowed. "What, so you did get a boyfriend?"

Shrugging, Sherlock glanced away, perfectly exposing the bright red marks littering the side of his throat.

"...Well," Lestrade said eloquently, glancing between the two men. "That's...good on you, Sherlock. Congrats...? I'm Greg Lestrade," he held out a hand for John to shake. "Detective Inspector. Who might you be?"

"Doctor John Watson," the blonde replied, smiling brightly and taking the proffered hand in a firm grasp. "Just home from Afghanistan, I meant to have Sher introduce me ages ago, but I guess we got a bit..." he glanced at Sherlock and sucked in his lower lip, a small, lascivious smile curling his mouth. "Distracted."

Sally gagged, turning away.

"We're gonna have to take you in for questioning, of course," Lestrade said, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, of course," John nodded, smiling benignly. "I wouldn't expect anything else. Just let me get dressed, and Sher and I will join you at the Yard in a bit? Sherlock, love, call a cab, if you would?"

"Of course," Sherlock bussed a kiss against John's cheek as he walked back to his bedroom. "Be quick, we haven't got all day."

"Yes yes," John waved a hand, already slipping the silk dressing gown from his shoulders.

"...How the hell did you manage to land that?" Sally asked, sounding incredulous.

Shrugging, Sherlock wandered over to remove his phone from his jacket pocket. "I suppose even I can be lucky sometimes."

 

"You know, Lestrade is going to ask how I met you," Sherlock said, watching the blonde on the opposite side of the cab. "Also, you're going to have to play my boyfriend all the time, now. Won't that bother you?"

"I can play anything, dear," John told him, both hands loosely clasped over the plastic grip of his aluminum cane. "Well, I admit I don't make a particularly convincing woman, but not for lack of trying."

"Are you even gay?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"I am whatever I need to be," John shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "Gay, straight, ace, etcetera."

"...Must have been in spec ops, then..." Sherlock mumbled quietly to himself.

John smothered a grin, face assuming an expression of passive interest. "Something like that, I suppose... Anyway, if we need a meeting story, how about..." he licked his lips briefly, wrinkled his nose, then grinned. "I was your doctor at the A&E when you went in to get that chunk of glass removed from your back, by your scapula."

Sherlock blinked a few times. "That could work. I didn't have many cases last month, regrettably, certainly nothing that would have been prevented by a hospital trip, and Lestrade would certainly believe it with how often he thinks I blow myself up. Mrs Hudson might even buy it..."

"And I'll bet Mycroft is attempting to figure out who the bloody fuck I am even as we speak," John nodded out the window at a CCTV camera. "Ah, stop here," he rapped on the glass between them and the cabbie, who pulled over obediently. "Stay," he told Sherlock, leaving his cane in the vehicle before slipping out.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock balked. "What do you think you're doing?"

"They're going to need my ID, aren't they?" John arched an eyebrow at him, laughter in his bright blue eyes, before he disappeared from view.

He returned only fifteen minutes later, carrying a little brown paper bag. Dropping it into the seat between them, he slid in and knocked for the cabbie to keep going.

"That was remarkably short," Sherlock told him, wanting to dig in the bag but also wanting to keep all his fingers attached.

"Ordered it this morning," John said, pulling out a scuffed canvas wallet and pawing through it. He held out a thin plastic card for Sherlock to examine.

"This thing looks ages old," Sherlock said, tapping it with his fingernails. "Also it expires in two years."

"You should know that a rookie mistake for someone my age is to get a card that looks brand new. That's ridiculous. I look like a respectable gentleman, I wouldn't lose my card."

"True," Sherlock nodded, going over the personal information. "You're thirty-seven?"

"Something like that, yeah," John nodded, plucking the card back and stuffing the wallet into his back pocket.

"You look younger," Sherlock shrugged, watching out of the corner of his eye as John pulled out a phone.

"Apparently I have a brother, too," John said, flashing his flatmate the back of the phone.

"Make it a sister," Sherlock told him. "Older, drinking problems, who has troubles with the wife. It explains why you're with me instead of with her."

John nodded, turning the phone on and slipping it into his hip pocket. "How do you feel about PDA?"

"Public Displays of Affection?" Sherlock squinted. "I don't particularly care for them. I suppose we can hold hands if we must, weather allowing, but don't kiss me."

Nodding, John said, "I can work with that. I also hope you don't mind hickeys and bite marks, because you're probably going to have a few of those."

Nose wrinkled in distaste, Sherlock asked, "Why? I doubt dating someone would miraculously increase my sex drive."

"New partners do," John reached over and tweaked his nose, and Sherlock squawked, batting him away. "It's called the honeymoon stage, Sherlock, practically every couple goes through it."

"Disgusting," Sherlock sniffed, rubbing his nose.

 

"How did you meet our Sherlock, anyway?" Lestrade asked curiously, pausing by the door of the interviewing room. "He's not really much of the 'dating' type."

"Yes, I know," John smiled impishly, nose wrinkling. "It took him ages to figure out I was hitting on him, I thought it was rather sweet. But we met when he got his silly arse blown up -he had to go have shrapnel removed from his back, you remember when he did that?" he blinked innocently at the DI, who was more than a little flummoxed and didn't quite know what to do.

"...Yes...?" Lestrade blinked, even though no, he really didn't.

"We met then, I was his physician," John waved a hand. "I thought he was cute -I still think he's rather adorable, actually- so I asked him out for coffee, and the rest, as they say, is history." He smiled, and Lestrade barely noticed the slighter man slip by to get back to the front of the Yard.

"John!" Sherlock jumped up from where he had been sprawled like a Victorian heiress, clapping his hands so he had something to do with them. "You're out, yes. Good. We must. Um."

"Let's go get supper, darling," John smiled, limping forward and reaching out to clasp the man's hand. "Didn't you say you always wanted to visit that one Polish place near here, but never seem to have the time?"

"That one with the naked man on the window?" Sherlock blinked at him, then beamed. "Yes, I do want to try that one. Sounds excellent."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," John waved, glancing back over his shoulder. "We appreciate you taking your time."

"...Yeah," Lestrade lifted an absent hand in farewell, already feeling like strange things were going to be happening soon, whether they all liked it or not.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for blood, marking, permanent scarring, consensual scarring, a bit of blood kink, and some almost-sex.

"Doctor Watson," the ginger began slowly, leaning on his umbrella. "You are a difficult person to figure out, aren't you. You don't have much history, it seems."

"I have more history than you could ever know, actually," John replied, cane tucked almost carelessly under his arm. "But I'm afraid you probably won't ever find me, not really -and even if you do, I doubt you'd believe it."

"Is your name even John Watson?" Mycroft cocked his head to the side.

"Yeah," John grinned. "I'm even a doctor, if that helps any."

"...What is your interest with Sherlock?"  Mycroft asked instead. "What do you intend to do with him?"

"I'm not going to injure your brother," John told him, shaking his head. "I happen to quite like him, actually. I intend to keep him as safe as I can, for as long as I can, despite what my former masters might wish."

After a beat, Mycroft nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I suppose I shall have to take you for your word. Sherlock is already incredibly attached to you, I'd hate to deal with the temper tantrum if I had to take you away."

John gave a shark-like grin. "Assuming you would be able to take me away at all, of course. I don't take threats to what I consider my own very well, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Mycroft hummed, hands flexing on his umbrella handle. "I'm sure my imagination does not do reality justice."

"Heh, probably not," John admitted, dropping his cane out from under his arm and swinging it across his shoulders. "But let's not make it come to that, if we can."

Humming, Mycroft nodded. "Excellent plan, Doctor Watson."

"Quite. Am I free to go now?" John arched an eyebrow.

"Of course," Mycroft waved to the car still behind John, though he did not doubt for a second that John wasn't fully aware of every square inch of the warehouse. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Watson."

"Yes, but let's not do this again if we can at all avoid it," John smiled tightly, pulling open the car door to the backseat. "Oh, and, tell Q to watch his back, won't you?" he asked, pausing just before he ducked into the car. "My...who I worked for before, they would not hesitate to kill him. They would love to kill him, I suppose I should say. He is a danger to them. So are you, and Sherlock, but he is..." he winced, biting his lower lip.

"...Thank...you," Mycroft said after several seconds of awkward silence, the grip on his umbrella so tight his knuckles were turning white. "I shall keep that in mind."

"Good," John nodded, ducking into the car and slamming the door shut behind him.

As soon as the car was gone, Mycroft pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the younger brother that didn't exist.

 

Sherlock yawned, pressing the back of his hand to his wide-open mouth, scrubbing the other through his thick curls. "John," he called, throwing back the blankets and stumbling to his feet. Christ, was he sluggish... "John!"

He was met with utter silence.

Sherlock paused, blinking a few times. Carefully edging to his bedroom door, he crouched and tugged it open a crack.

He could see no sign of John, which probably meant nothing good.

Closing the door with a soft click, Sherlock crept to his armoire and got dressed as silently as he was able. He then slithered back to his door and shuffled out, keeping himself as low and compact as possible.

John was standing right beside the front door, back ramrod straight. "Handler Holmes," he intoned, voice dull and emotionless.

"...Shit," Sherlock bit his lip, rising to his full height. "John."

The man paused, blinked once, and twisted to face Sherlock. "Handler Holmes. I am Asset Watson, Codename the Englishman. What are my instructions for today?"

"...Secure home base," Sherlock said slowly, tongue dipping out to wet his lower lip. "Don't let anyone in but me, but do not kill, do not incapacitate unless necessary. Deflect. If gone after with violence, return in kind, of course."

"Sir," John nodded, head bowing as Sherlock shuffled past.

Grabbing his coat and winding his scarf around his throat, Sherlock gave his companion one last glance before heading downstairs. He knocked on his landlady's door.

"Oh, Sherlock, what can I help you with, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, smiling sweetly. "Where's John?"

"He headed out early today, Mrs H," Sherlock said, buttoning his coat as high as he could. "Something about milk, I think. Anyway, don't go upstairs, please, I have a delicate experiment in progress!"

The woman chuckled, waving a hand. "Really, Sherlock, you should pay more attention to what that man says to you! He's got the patience of a saint, I swear."

"Yes," Sherlock smiled, dipping his head in agreement. "I definitely do not deserve him."

"Now, that's not what I was saying," Mrs Hudson admonished, reaching up to tap his nose. "I was saying you must have done something good in your life to get him, and he must have done something extraordinary to deserve you."

Despite himself, Sherlock could feel his cheeks and ears turning red. "No...I..."

"Anyway, you go on, Sherlock dear, catch up to your man," she patted his arm, pushing him to the door. "Goodbye, dearie!"

 

"Where's your boyfriend?" Anderson asked, smirking arrogantly.

"Working," Sherlock told him flatly, chin lifted. "Like you should be, were you doing what you are _paid_ to do. Idiot."

 

"Thank you," John said as soon as Sherlock picked up his phone, foregoing any greetings.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, trailing after Lestrade through the halls of New Scotland Yard.

"Yes, much," John replied, a smile in his voice. "Thank you for asking. How are you?"

"It's a murder, John!" Sherlock grinned,  feelings strangely giddy. "Closed room, police think it's a muder-suicide but anyone could tell it's a double murder, honestly, the angles are all wrong!"

John laughed, "Good on you, Sherlock. I can tell you're having loads of fun. Do you think you'll be home in time for breakfast?"

"Probably, yes," Sherlock nodded, rubbing his thumb against the edge of one of his coat buttons. "I'll see you in a few, okay?"

"Okay, Sherlock," John chuckled softly, sounding happy. "See you in a few."

Smiling to himself, Sherlock ended the call and tucked the phone into his pocket. He took a few steps back towards the crime scene, then stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh shit."

Lestrade looked up sharply. "What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"...Nothing, nothing, sudden epiphany is all," Sherlock waved a hand, glad to note that it wasn't trembling in the slightest, and ducked under the police tape cordoning off the bodies. "Anyway, angles..."

~/\~

John abruptly placed a firm palm in the center of Sherlock's chest and shoved him down and back, slamming him against the floor outside their flat door.

Sherlock cut off in the middle of his tirade against incompetent humans, blinking up at his flatmate in confusion. "John?"

"Someone's here," John said softly, drawing a gun from underneath his jumper. "Go downstairs and don't you dare fucking move before I tell you to. If you hear me yell, leave, call Mycroft."

Sherlock stared at him.

Grabbing the front of his coat, John hauled him to his feet and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. "I happen to like you, so I'd rather you not die. Go," he shoved Sherlock to the stairs, waiting until he was safely ensconced in Mrs Hudson's sitting room before he reached for the doorknob.

He flung it open, ducked, and rolled to the side, already swinging his gun up and firing several shots into the room.

There was a curse, and John smirked, though he momentarily mourned the lack of his usual uniform.

"Englishman!" one yelled. "What are you doing playing domestic, son? You know you're not made for this."

"But it is nice," John called back, throwing his arm around the edge of the door and firing at the voice.

They gurgled, and there was a thump.

John dropped to his stomach, feet dangling over the stairs, just as those remaining in the apartment opened fire. He could hear Mrs Hudson screeching from downstairs, but blocked it out, focusing on the ragged breaths from inside between the gaps between bullets. Counting carefully -waiting for the gap that would be just a bit longer- John snapped up, pressing his gun to the wall and firing several shots through. He scraped the barrel against the plaster, gouging a broad furrow through the paint and wallpaper and leaving several smoking holes in his wake.

Utter silence met him.

Blowing the dust off the end of the barrel, John dropped it and pulled another from under his jumper. He nudged the door open, walking in slow, careful increments, stepping over the webs of razorwire threaded across the hallway. "If you're still alive you'd better fucking talk now, and I might be merciful when I fucking kill you."

Silence.

John leaned over the table-and-chairs barricade, cocking his head to the side. He tutted, "idiots. Should know better than to attack a man in his own bloody home..."

"John?" Sherlock yelled up the stairs, sounding panicked. "Are you alright? John!"

"I'm fine," John yelled back, gun held out at chest level to scan the apartment. "Don't come up yet." He shuffled to Sherlock's bedroom, looping first through the kitchen. Empty.

Last was his own bedroom, spartan and a plain grey color. Practically untouched by the invaders, excepting all his weapons laid out in neat, orderly lines on the floor in front of his bed.

John's jaw worked, kicking them under the bed, before spinning and going back downstairs. He slipped a multitool from his pocket, ripping the wires from the wall and coiling them in the sink. "All clear," he called down, grabbing the gun that was sitting in the hall and tucking it into the back of his trousers. "Careful. Mrs Hudson, I would stay down there for a while longer, it's a bit...messy. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shot out of the apartment like a bat out of hell, racing up the stairs and jerking to a halt in front of John. "You- are you okay, are you hurt? Were you injured?"

"I'm fine," John smiled at him, reaching up and smoothing his thumbs over Sherlock's cheeks. "I've had worse -just a few barely even nicked me, trust me. It's mostly scratches from flying wood."

Sighing, Sherlock clutched John to his chest, eyes scrunched tightly shut. "That...was terrifying, John. What even...who were they?"

"...Dunno," John said into Sherlock's throat, hands tight on the man's hips. "Didn't exactly stop and ask while they were trying to kill me."

"No identifying tags?" Sherlock asked, petting John's hair.

"Not from what I could see," John shook his head, pulling reluctantly away but not releasing his grip on Sherlock's hand just yet, carefully leading him into the flat's entryway. "But I'll admit I didn't look too close when they were down, just a check to make sure they were dead."

Sherlock hummed, looming behind John to stare at the half-dozen or so corpses behind the furniture barricade. "All I see is a peculiar winged-cephalopod-looking emblem -is that familiar to you?"

John went deathly still, grip flexing almost painfully tight on Sherlock's wrist. "An octopus-type thing? Red, black background, with a silver eagle behind it?" His eyes were shut tight.

"...Yes," Sherlock stood on his tiptoes to see clearer. "That exact same. What is it? It's familiar to me, but I don't know from where."

"...Fuck," John snarled, slamming a fist into the wall hard enough for it to crack. "God damn it. Sherlock, it's not safe for me to be around you."

Sherlock blinked at him. "That...that doesn't mean what I think it means, does it?"

"It means I should probably leave," John gestured to the door with a jerk of his thumb,  jaw tight. "I'm going to get you killed, and that would...probably destroy me."

"No, you can't leave," Sherlock gripped John's wrist tightly. "You're my friend, John, don't leave me!"

"Sherlock-" John tried, frowning deeply.

"No," Sherlock said darkly, flatly, jerking John to himself and bundling him up in his arms. "You can't go anywhere, John, I don't know what I would do."

Stilling, John pressed his ear to the man's chest, listening to the too-fast _thumpthump_ of his heart. "Sher..."

"Best friends don't leave each other," Sherlock said seriously, aware he was sounding like a petulant child and utterly uncaring of that.

"I..." John shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "Okay, Sherlock. I'll...we'll see what we can do. In the meantime," he glanced around the flat and sighed in disgust. "God damn it, I just got this fucking place clean, too."

Sherlock stared around, finally noting the bullet holes and excesses of overturned furniture. "Shame..."

"Gonna have to call Mycroft for his cleaning service, hm?" John asked, turning away and putting his hands on his hips. "Though I doubt the stains will be coming out any time soon, blast."

"Also Mrs Hudson," Sherlock added, clenching his hands awkwardly before stuffing them in his pockets. "She's probably terrified."

"...Yes," John nodded in agreement, humming thoughtfully. "I'll call Mycroft, you comfort the landlady."

"What, why?" Sherlock stared at him. "I'm horrid at making people feel better, everyone says so."

"Better than I am," John arched an eyebrow at his friend. "Make her a cup of tea or something, I'm still working on my people skills, at least you can fake them if you have to and she trusts you implicitly. And, do you _really_ want to _call_ Mycroft?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Ah. I'll...go comfort Mrs Hudson, then." He nodded, turned on his heel, tromping loudly down the stairs.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, John dialled one of four numbers programmed in.

" _I take it something dire has happened_."

"Could be said, yeah," John nodded, nudging one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. "I'll need to make use of that cleaning service that you pretend you don't have."

There was a pause. " _Have you done something to my brother?_ "

"Please, Mycroft, if I was going to kill him, you wouldn't know until you failed to find me. Give me some credit." John rolled his eyes in disdain. "Also we'll need a safe house for both Sherlock and I, as well as Mrs Hudson. Though perhaps it might be best for her to go visit her relatives in the country..."

" _Perhaps_ ," Mycroft conceded. " _Might I inquire as to why, precisely, you are in need of this...crew?_ "

"Mm, few human corpses," John admitted with a shrug, stepping over the table to crouch next to one of the bodies. He tugged off their mask with the tip of one of his knives, and tutted at the young woman he found. "Such waste of life..."

" _How many?_ "

"Six is all," John wandered into the kitchen, snapping on a pair of blue gloves.

"... _Ah_ ," Mycroft's blink was almost audible. " _Not very many, for a man such as...yourself_."

John hummed in vague agreement, crouching beside the bodies again. He hung up, tucking the phone into the back pocket of his jeans, before rifling through the team's clothing for ammunition and cellphones, as well as cutting off the convicting silver eagles and red octopi.

The tags got tossed into an experiment of Sherlock's in the freezer, and John systematically broke into the phones to search for a number.

Luckily, they were all disposable burner phones, and only had one number programmed in.

" _What's the status, Reddiq?_ "

"May I please inquire as to who this is?" John asked, sounding sickly sweet and positively lethal.

" _...Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with my men?_ " came the answering growl.

"This must be...Pierce?" John asked innocently, cheek on the palm of his hand. "Yes? Hmm, I take it by your stunned silence I must be correct. Now, Pierce, ducky..."

And here his voice got low, dark and growly -it was a voice that promised pain and suffering if disregarded. "I don't know what you are up to, and I don't care what your fucking dogs do, they can bite me as many times as they fucking like, but if they come anywhere near any of the Holmes again, I will not be so merciful."

" _...Who is this?_ " Pierce asked tightly.

"The Englishman," John said, and had just enough time to hear the man's shocked inhale before he crushed the phone in his hand. He grinned darkly, and began methodically destroying the burner mobiles with his bare hands.

He stood, dusting off his hands -smearing blood more than anything else, really- and wandered to the front door in time to meet Sherlock.

"...Hello," the taller man said awkwardly, biting his lower lip briefly before his gaze skittered away. "I...what happened to you hands?!" he asked incredulously, reaching for the appendages and jerking them up to see them clearer.

"Destroying something," John shrugged, smiling faintly at Sherlock. "Your brother's team is going to be here pretty quick, so I should probably wash up unless I wanna get binned as a biohazard."

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. "I thought we weren't supposed to giggle at crime scenes, John."

"I've been a crime scene for most of my life, Sherlock," John grinned despite himself, nudging his friend with his elbow. "I have to giggle sometimes."

 

Sherlock suddenly sat up, throwing his feet off the couch (that didn't feel quite right) and staring at John until he looked up from his methodical deconstruction and cleaning of the guns he'd used that day.

He didn't say anything, but he did arch a single pale eyebrow, grease smeared over his cheek.

"Why did you kiss me?" Sherlock asked, not allowing himself time to consider whether that was an appropriate question or not.

After a beat, John staring at him intently, Sherlock squirmed. He didn't want to, he hated it, but something about John's oh-so-blue eyes made him itch.

"I didn't know if I would get the chance again," John finally said, looking back down at his weapons.

"So, what, it was just some stupid whim-?" Sherlock asked tightly, hands clenching tightly around the couch cushion underneath him.

"No," John said flatly, gaze flicking up. "Not anything like that. When I said that I happen to like you, I was completely serious. I am..." he twitched his head to the side. "I am fond of you. Probably more than anything else I have been for a long, long while..."

Sherlock's ire faded as swiftly as it had come. "Oh..." he said slowly, ducking his chin. "I..."

"It's...not really a usual sort of fondness," John admitted, licking his lips. "I don't know if I even remember how to...love...like a normal person, like everyone else."

"Well, normal is boring," Sherlock shrugged, swallowing thickly. "And I can't stand anything boring."

John cracked a grin, chuckling between his teeth. "Isn't that the truth. Alright," he wiped his hands off on his stained jeans after slotting the last piece back into place. He stood and stretched, spine crackling like a live wire, and stalked over to Sherlock. "What do you think you're getting into here, Sherlock?" he asked, pinning the taller man to the couch.

"I...I am not quite sure," Sherlock said roughly, hands on the man's hips. "What am I getting into?"

"I do not share," John said, twining his fingers into Sherlock's silky hair. "I do not even consider sharing -if you are mine, you will always be mine."

Sherlock nodded, blinking widely. "I think I could manage that."

"I bite," John added, rubbing a thumb along the long, slender line of Sherlock's throat. "What are your opinions on permanent marks?"

Biting his lower lip to hold in a moan, Sherlock shuddered. "I...do not find them...disagreeable," he said, tongue feeling far too large for his mouth. "I...want to be. Yours. All of it. Always."

"Positive?" John nearly growled, eyes flashing darkly. "There's no turning back."

Tipping his head up to expose his throat, Sherlock had never felt more vulnerable. "Positive."

John grinned absolutely wolfishly, pressing his nose to Sherlock's pulse. "You smell delicious, love," he said roughly, licking a patch of the exposed throat. "I just want to eat you up."

Sherlock choked back a moan, and sturdy fingers wound into his curls.

"I want to hear you, love, Sherlock," John said, lips brushing over the man's neck with every word. "I want to hear your everything, don't you dare hold back." He sucked a bruise, making the skin hypersensitive -he wanted this to hurt.

Moaning fully, Sherlock's hands clenched even tighter on John's slender hips. "Please, John, please," he whispered, rocking his own hips up with some measure of desperation. "Please."

"Good things come to those who wait," John growled, clamping down hard enough to break skin. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth, and they both moaned, the blonde rocking his hips down forcefully. He laved his tongue over the wound, cleaning the blood and delighting in it.

Sherlock threw his head back and gasped for breath in his suddenly too-small lungs, eyes scrunched shut. "Oh, John, my John my John, god..."

John smirked, rubbing his nose against the underside of Sherlock's chin. "I am never letting you go..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the rough cut-off, about a quarter of what I had got deleted :J and also I don't like writing sex. It's...not something I am comfortable with.


	3. Chapter 3

"Again with the kidnapping," John rolled his eyes, but acquiesced, setting the paper shopping bags on the car floor before climbing in and slamming the door behind him. "What is it this time, Mycroft, darling?"

"Two things, really," the man said, reaching into one of his inside pockets.

John flexed one hand against his leg, forcing himself to not stiffen.

After a beat, Mycroft arching a slender eyebrow, he withdrew three keyrings from his pocket. "221B has been repaired," he said, dangling the rings from one of his oddly calloused fingers. "And your...problems have been dealt with."

"Thank you," John took the keys, gave them a cursory once-over, and tucked them into the front pocket of his trousers. "What was the other thing, then?" He smiled, eyebrows high with 'innocent' curiosity.

"You were in the military?" Mycroft asked, a seeming non-sequitur.

"Of course," John's smile grew just a little bit tighter, drawing creases around his bright blue eyes.

"Doctor, you said," Mycroft briefly glanced down at his phone.

John's jaw clenched. "Point, if you please."

"The only person to match your description is dead," Mycroft said, pinning John with a flat look. "And has been dead for...quite some time now."

The smile now became bitter. "Sometime in the nineteen-forties, probably, right?"

"Precisely," Mycroft smiled blandly, hands flexing on the handle of his umbrella. "What can you tell me about this?"

John licked his lips, eyes closing as he gave a shallow nod. "It is...a bit of a difficult story."

"We have all the time in the world, if needs be," Mycroft told him, smiling tightly.

"No," John shook his head, his smile just as dark, if not more so. "At the very latest, we have until the ice cream melts, but this should only take fifteen minutes. Less, if you are inclined to listen."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, shifting to get more comfortable where he sat. "I'm listening."

John smirked, clasping his hands in his lap and leaning forward. "So then let's get this started..."

 

"Your brother and I just had a remarkably enlightening conversation," John remarked, setting the plastic bags on the table in their temporary kitchen.

"Yes?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow, drumming his fingers against his thigh. "What about? Did he threaten your existence if you broke me irreparably?" He rolled his eyes.

"No, not so much," John chuckled, pulling things out of the bags. "Though that was a point in his kidnapping game this time. No, today was more...he wanted to know about me."

"...Oh?" Sherlock paused, turning to blink at his partner. "I want to know about you."

"I know you do, dearest," John said gently, coming over and threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair to tug him down. "And I would love to tell you, I really would, but you just don't need the stress right now. I'm very sorry."

"I know," Sherlock pressed their foreheads together, nose wrinkling. "I...suppose I can wait. Well, I can try, in any case."

John grinned, rocking up on the balls of his feet to press a kiss to Sherlock's mouth. "That's my good boy. I will tell you someday, that I promise, but..."

"But not today," Sherlock shrugged, sighing. "John, I'm bored..."

"Help me put these groceries away, and then we can ask Lestrade for something for you to work on," John pulled back, tweaking Sherlock's nose and eliciting an indignant sputter.

 

"Oh! Um, hello," John blinked innocently at the man standing in his doorway. "Can I...help you?"

"Yes, hello, hi," the man ducked a nod, trying to edge around John, only to be blocked at every turn. "Look, hey, my name's-"

"Tony Stark, yes," John nodded also, planting his hands firmly in the doorframe. "May I please inquire as to what you might be doing here? This seems to be awfully out of your way, don't you think?"

"Well, twofold," Tony held up two fingers, wiggling them in the air. "One -how proficient are you at treating wounded supersoldiers?"

John went deathly still, tipping his chin down and peering at the man through his thick eyelashes. "I take it you got hold of me through Mycroft."

"Obviously," Tony shrugged, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I'll tell you point two later. You gonna help us?"

"Suppose," John shrugged and stepped back, finally allowing the man inside. "Touch anything that you take apart and I'll rip your fucking fingers off."

Tony paused in the middle of sending off a text, giving the soft-looking man a startled look. "What the fuck?"

Smiling sweetly, John wandered off to his bedroom, pulling out his full medical kit. "What sort of injuries are we talking here, Stark? Am I just patching him up, or am I full-on taping him together while the glue dries?"

"That...is the freakiest way I've heard of, referring to Cap's healing factor," Tony decided, nodding sharply. "But uh, yeah, you'll be taping him back together."

"Fucking great," John rolled his eyes, lugging the unwieldy metal case down the stairs from his old room. "Get the door, would you?"

Tony scowled at him, but pulled the door open anyway, admitting Thor, who was carrying Steve.

John's gaze immediately locked onto the soldier, his jaw locked, and he allowed himself one full-bodied tell. He inhaled deeply, shook his head, and beckoned for the Asgardian to move him to the kitchen table. Stripping off his soft, cream-colored jumper, John got down to work.

 

"You seem remarkably unfazed," Tony told him, leaning against the counter while John scrubbed the blood from his hands. "Do you usually stitch wounded supersoldiers back together?"

"It's not an everyday thing, no," John flicked the excess water from his hands, reaching for the bleach-spotted towel nearby. "But I probably spend more time sewing people back up than most, being a doctor and all."

Tony hummed thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. "You're an interesting character, Doc. Mycroft said you were reliable, but I didn't wanna believe that. Then I come to find out you're living with a guy who keeps hacking into secure SHIELD files."

John hummed noncommittally, turning to glance over his patient. "Sherlock? I assume he was your second reason for paying a visit, hm?"

"Precisely!" Tony grinned brightly. "How'd you guess? Where's he at?"

"Case," John shrugged, wandering to the stove to put on the kettle.

"How come you aren't with him?" Tonycocked his head to the side, looking strangely innocent.

"I...don't do well with cases that involve needless tormenting of innocents," John said slowly, softly, staring at the mugs he pulled down from the cupboard.

Tony twitched, looking away. "Ah. Well. When...do you think he'll be back...?"

"Sherlock? Soon, probably," John shrugged. "This case was only about a six or so, so less than a few days to solve. I expect him back any-"

The downstairs door flew open, and a man with long legs flew up the stairs. "John!"

"Ah, any moment now," John filled both mugs with hot water over teabags, smiling to himself. "I'm in here, Sherlock. No danger."

Flying into the kitchen, Tony saw Sherlock make a rapid scan over the doctor before dashing even closer and pulling the him into a tight hug.

"There was blood on the steps," Sherlock said, nuzzling into John's temple. "I didn't know what to think."

"Supersoldier with no regard for his own health or safety," John shrugged, brushing his fingers through Sherlock's thick locks, tucking the man against his side.

Tony blinked at them. "Hi."

Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock asked, "Why are you still wearing your coat? It is exceptionally warm in here -did you actually turn the heat on, John?"

"Yes," John nodded, taking Sherlock's scarf and coat and wandering away to put them up. "If I remember correctly, Steve has a lot of issues with the cold. Not that I blame him, of course, what he went through would probably drive anyone else utterly batty, but," John shrugged.

Tony stared at the detective. "You got some kinky shit going on, Holmes, not gonna lie. How long you and the good Doc been stepping out together?"

Sherlock smirked, brushing his fingers lovingly over the necklace of hickeys pressed into his soft skin. "Mm, maybe a few weeks now. We only met about three months ago."

"So one of your old partners left that?" Tony brushed his fingers over his own neck, meaning the distinct white mark on Sherlock's throat.

"Of course not," Sherlock sniffed, reaching for one of the mugs of tea. "John is my first, my last, my only. Well, more or less."

"Consent is key, dear," John said, followed by a drowsy Thor.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock smiled at him, rubbing his warm fingertips over the bite scar fondly. "That is why you are my first."

"Yes, dear," John reached out to press his palm over the mark, squeezing gently, before reaching into the cupboard for another mug and a large tankard. "I'm afraid I don't have much by way of alcohol, but could I tempt you with some tea?" he asked, smiling at the Asgardian.

Thor blinked at him a few times, scratching his head. "Tea?"

"Got any coffee?" Tony asked, glancing around the kitchen, avoiding looking at the bloodstained table.

"No," John said shortly, jostling the billionaire out of the way and refilling the electric kettle. "It makes my chest hurt, and it makes him," he gestured to Sherlock, "go out of his mind with nervous energy."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste, but had to nod.

"It's rather unpleasant, actually," John remarked absently, staring at the table. "I'll need to get some bleach..." his voice had gone curiously blank, soft, his posture an odd combination of stiff and fight-ready.

Sherlock stiffened, then forced himself to relax. "I'll ask Mrs Hudson if we have some, alright?"

"You do that," John hummed, still staring at the table.

Sherlock smiled, lightly rapping his knuckles against the counter and setting his mug down. "Great. Come on then, you two," he took hold of Tony and Thor, leading them into the sitting room. "Stay here," he said quietly, fixing them both with grave looks.

They stared at him.

"What, why?" Tony asked incredulously, scowling.

"John is..." Sherlock dithered a bit, waving his hands. "He was a prisoner of war for a very long while, there's a whole big issue there that I really don't want to get into, but he's generally pretty harmless. He just needs some time to...to come back to his own head," he gestured vaguely, shrugging. "He'll be fine in a bit. He just needs to keep checking in on his patient, but he won't hurt him. Don't talk to him, don't startle him, and for god's sake please don't touch him."

"Understood," Thor replied, nodding gravely. "I have had many a shield brother with predicaments such as this. The good doctor will not be bothered."

"Excellent," Sherlock grinned, sliding his hands together before standing.

"Where are you going?" Tony asked, nose wrinkling.

"To go collect some bleach," Sherlock nodded, slipping downstairs. He was back after nearly ten minutes, quiet as a mouse, with a good-sized jug of concentrated bleach in his large hands. Peeking inside, he smirked at seeing the largest Avenger tipped sideways on the couch, almost asleep.

Tony was sitting stiffly beside him, gaze flicking tellingly between his phone, Sherlock's bedroom door, and the kitchen.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and was gratified to see the man jerk, staring around.

"You're in no danger," Sherlock said lightly, wandering into the kitchen. "John is no more likely to harm you than I am."

"Most people want to hurt me at some point in their lives," Tony shrugged, dropping the phone into his lap. "It's kind of a thing with me."

"I...know what you mean..." Sherlock said as he came back, sliding into one of the chairs near the sofa. "People don't particularly care for me either." His smile was riddled with self-deprecation.

Tony blinked at him. "What, are you another asshole genius too?"

Sherlock chuckled, settling back in his chair with his tea. "I regularly get comments of 'freak,' if that tells you anything."

Snorting, Tony shifted to get more comfortable. "Sounds familiar."

The smell of bleach filled the air, and Thor mumbled under his breath.

 

John shuffled out of the kitchen, three mugs in his hands, a good half-hour later. He handed one to Tony, then one to Sherlock, before taking a seat at the detective's feet.

"You smell like bleach," Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"We need to bleach the table more often," John told him, resting his temple against Sherlock's knee. "It's technically supposed to be about four shades lighter than it actually is."

"Excepting the scorch marks," Sherlock rested his hand on the top of John's head, lightly scratching his scalp.

Tony cocked his head to the side. "Scorch marks? Were that what those were?"

"Sherlock has a chemistry habit," John said, eyes at half mast. "Sometimes he's not very safe with it. When are you getting picked up?"

"As soon as Hawkeye can bring us a ride from the States," Tony said, glancing at his phone on the arm of the sofa.

"Mm, Mycroft could probably let you use his private plane," John hummed thoughtfully, blinking slowly. "Ah, surprise always makes me a bit...off. I'm sorry if I startled you, by the way."

"Nah, no worries," Tony flapped a hand, smiling brightly. "Cap," he gestured to Sherlock's bedroom door, "kind of gets a bit like that sometimes too. He's from the forties, y'know, so he still has times where he's not quite all the way here. You get me?"

John smirked, taking a sip of his tea. "More than you would realize. Though you do know that it's generally rude to divulge a friend's secrets without the friend's knowledge? Bit not good, mate."

Flushing, Tony looked down at his mug. He blinked a few times, then sniffed it suspiciously. "I thought you said you didn't have any alcohol. Shoot me if I'm wrong, but there's brandy in this. Expensive shit, too."

"I said I didn't have _much_ alcohol," John corrected, taking another sip of his spiked tea. "And yes, it is in fact _very_ expensive brandy. Mycroft has good tastes."

"Mm, regrettably so," Sherlock admitted, grudgingly, staring down into the mug. "Bastard."

Cocking his head to the side, Tony asked, "do you two not get along well?"

John snorted, rolling his eyes. "It is one of the most childish feuds I have ever seen between two fully-grown men. It would be pathetic if it weren't so amusing."

"It is not," Sherlock huffed, setting his jaw stubbornly.

Both Tony and John scoffed.

Sherlock pouted, shuffling down in the chair and drawing one leg up. "Fine," he muttered, "I don't like you either."

About to respond, John cut himself off and cocked his head to the side, angled towards the bedroom door. "Ah," he said, "someone's awake."

"Eh?" Tony blinked at the doctor as he disappeared into the bedroom.

Steve looked absolutely flummoxed as he exited a few moments later, John only a step behind him.

"Everything alright, Cap?" Tony asked, eyebrows knitting in concern. "You remember who we are?"

"Right, right of course," Steve nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry, just...confused. I couldn't remember where we were, so I got a bit..." he shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

On the couch, Thor snorted and sat up with a jerk, blinking rapidly. He glanced around, bright eyes alighting on the man, and he grinned. "Steven! It is most excellent to see you looking so hale, my brother!"

"Yeah..." Steve smiled, clasping forearms with the Asgardian before allowing himself to be nudged onto the couch beside Tony. "I feel pretty swell. Thanks, again, Doc Watson."

"No problem, Captain," John smiled, shrugging, not yet sitting. "Would you like some tea? I have some that I think you might like."

"Ah, yes please, if you would," Steve smiled brightly, hands clasped in his lap even as he practically melted into the couch. "Thank you, sir."

John smiled, ducking a nod, before turning to the kitchen.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's really short, sorry :J

"...John...!" Sherlock yelled without turning, staring in shock at the man at the door.

In an instant, the blonde was beside him, hands on Sherlock's hips and moving him out of the way. "Well shit," he said eloquently, staring at the bedraggled form hunkered on the back stoop. "Barnes."

"Watson," the man croaked, blinking up with bloodshot blue eyes. "I see you're doing well."

"I see you're dying on my fucking front porch," John sighed, crouching and dragging the man to his feet. "God damn it, Barnes, what is it with you and dying?"

"Same could be said for you," Barnes scoffed, then hissed, eyes going tight at the corners. "Ha, careful, think I broke a few ribs."

"Of fucking course you did," John groaned, rolling his eyes. "Sherlock, be a love, go clear off the kitchen table?"

"Um, yes," Sherlock nodded sharply, dashing up the steps.

"You smell like a homeless person," John said, tugging the man along on stumbling feet.

"Tha's not very PC ah you, Doc," Barnes said, shuffling along as well as he was able, interrupting himself with little grunts of pain.

"You're broken and stupid, you're not allowed to talk," John told him, gripping the man lower on his hips to tug him higher off the ground.

Barnes scoffed, then coughed weakly, left hand gripping John's shoulders tightly.

"Ow, bastard," John grumbled, shoving open his flat door with his foot.

"Sorry," Barnes mumbled, not sounding sorry at all, head lolling weakly forward. "Damn...haven't been this hurt in ages, Doc Wats."

John sighed, gently sitting the man on the kitchen table. "I know, dear, I know. C'mon, let's get you fixed up. How's your arm doing?"

"Could use some work," Barnes admitted, vaguely helping John and Sherlock tug off his ragged jacket and shirts. "Fine motor control is totally shot."

"Ah," John frowned, rapping his fingers against a singed metal plate of Barnes' left arm.

Sherlock stared, strangely fascinated yet oddly terrified. "John."

The man grunted, digging through his medkit.

"John, how do you know the Winter Soldier?" Sherlock asked, shuffling closer, examining the arm with intent.

Barnes gave Sherlock a peculiar look. "You know who I am but you're not screaming and running away?"

"He's an idiot without a retreat button," John scowled, jabbing Barnes in the side with the knuckle of his forefinger to make the man suck in his stomach.

"I am not an idiot, John," Sherlock sniffed, taking his place beside John to begin removing the bullets and metal fragments from the metal arm. "And I do know how to retreat, I just don't like to."

"Yes dear," John rolled his eyes, picking up a pair of long-nosed tweezers to pick bullet fragments from Barnes' taut stomach. "How have you been, James?"

"Oh, y'know, going around the world destroying HYDRA bases," Barnes shrugged with just his flesh shoulder. "You heard what happened in D.C.?"

"Of course I did," John scoffed, dabbing at a rather deep gouge with a cottonball soaked in disinfectant. "I'm dating the British Government's younger brother, plus I _do_ watch the news occasionally. SHIELD's been dismantled -corrupted from the inside by our old masters."

Barnes smirked darkly. "No one's masters, now."

Chuckling, John remarked, "heard Fury died."

"Doubt it," Barnes shook his head, and a lock of his dark chocolate hair fell across his forehead. "Doubt anything but a nuclear fucking strike could kill that stubborn bastard."

"I could make a comparison to cockroaches here," John mused, frowning slightly. He sighed, reaching for a scalpel. "Both you and Captain, I swear to fucking god," he groused. "Fucking serum -you're already healing around the bullets!"

"Oh, shut it, Doc, it's not like you don't do it too," Barnes retorted good-naturedly, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock blinked at the two men. "John also experiences accelerated healing? Ah, of course, that would make sense, wouldn't it..." he frowned thoughtfully at the metal arm. "Does your saliva accelerate the healing of others, Mister Barnes?"

"Mi-?" Barnes blinked at the man. "My saliva? I don't, fuck if I know, I've never really had cause to find out. Only person I ever swapped spit with on a regular basis had Erskine's serum, not mine and John's bastardized edition."

Sherlock paused, blinked, then continued. "John possesses that particular affinity, even with his 'bastardized' version."

"John spend a lot of time licking you?" Barnes leered, smirking.

"Yes, actually," John told him, while Sherlock sputtered incoherently. "He is my partner, in pretty much all senses of the word."

"Oh?" Barnes arched an eyebrow, looking between the two. "I suppose congrats are in order, then? Always knew you'd find yourself a pretty one, Doc."

"Thanks," John said dryly, jabbing him in the stomach with his knuckles again. "Anyway, stop distracting me, you two. I'll tell you everything when we get Jamie here stitched back together, alright?"

Barnes swiveled his head to stare at the blonde. "Jesus Christ, Doc, how long have you been seeing this guy? I mean, I understand having some secrets, but keeping all your cards so close to your chest?"

"I'm pretty sure he's probably got most of it figured out already," John replied, smiling gently at Sherlock beside him. "He's certainly no slouch when it comes to mental prowess. Could have made that bastard Zola seem like mere piddlywinks, compared."

Sherlock couldn't miss the way Barnes flinched at the name, and cocked his head to the side curiously. "Who is Zola?"

"Was a German scientist," Barnes said tightly, jaw tight. "Turned himself into a fucking processing system in Jersey, then blew up."

"Mm, that was while Cap was on the run, wasn't it," John dabbed at bullet holes with a disinfectant-soaked cotton ball. "Downfall of SHIELD and sundry, etcetera."

Barnes smirked, chuckling darkly.

 

"Here," John handed Sherlock and Barnes mugs of steaming tea, then settled on the coffee table in front of them.

Barnes blinked at the cup, then took a hesitant sniff. "Ooh, John...I haven't had tea in fucking ages, how do you always know these things?" He sighed happily and slurped a drink, humming.

"I'm English, it's a knack," John shrugged.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him.

"Alright, I'm old English, it's a knack," John shrugged again. "Speaking of old, Sherlock, I was born in the midst of World War One."

The man paused, then stared at the blonde. "Excuse you?"

"Yes," John nodded, almost to himself. "Nineteen...seventeen, I'm pretty sure."

"So you were...how old? When you joined the war?" Sherlock frowned, eyebrows knitting.

"Comparatively old," John shrugged. "I was nearly thirty when I was...captured," he hedged. "To these strapping young blokes," he gestured to Barnes, who looked not a day over twenty-five, "I was practically a dinosaur."

"Positively ancient," Barnes said dryly, rolling his eyes.

"What do you mean, captured?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward.

"How much do you know of HYDRA?" Barnes asked, staring into his mug, humor gone.

"A...a little bit," Sherlock admitted with a shake of his head. "Not much, regrettably- Mycroft has those files under heavy lock and key, and I think the only one who could hack in would be Tris..."

"Tris?" Barnes asked absently, sipping his tea.

"Codename Holmesling," John said, leaning back on his palms.

Barnes' eyes sharpened. "Operation Sugarbaby?"

"Miserable failure," John smirked triumphantly. "Thank god. MI6 security was tight as fuck, I got shot in the leg by an inconveniently visiting SHIELD agent who was also HYDRA, met this crazy bastard, the rest, as they say, is history."

Sherlock stared at him. "Are you telling me that the reason you were shot in the leg that day was because you were going to kill my baby brother."

"Actually, I was laying ground work, primarily," John shrugged. "Though if I saw any of the targets on my list and I had opportunity, I was supposed to quietly eliminate them."

Sherlock stared. Hard. "You were sent to kill Tristram."

"We were supposed to kill all you Holmeses," Barnes corrected lightly. "Apparently you make a lot of troubles for various underground groups. Doc Watson caused quite the ruckus when he up and disappeared after his failed assassination. They stuck me on ice ASAP. Only just took me out to have some fun with Cap."

"Damn," John sighed and shook his head. "Glad I missed that."

"Wish I had," Barnes muttered, staring into his cup. "It was...jarring, remembering who I used to be. Was it like that for you too, John?"

"Not...as such," John shrugged, tongue dipping out to wet his lower lip. "They never took my memory -I retained most of my sense of identity. They just fucked everything up until I couldn't recognize who were the good guys and who were the bad guys anymore. It was like...living in a dream. There was this itty bitty part of me that always said no, don't do that, but that part was pretty small near the end."

"What snapped you out of it?" Barnes asked softly, blinking large blue eyes rimmed with thick, dark lashes and set in eyesockets like bruises. "Couldn't have been getting shot, because we get shot...surprisingly often."

"No, it was..." John shook his head, sighing. "Do you remember Peggy? Miss Carter?"

"A...a bit," Barnes shrugged, looking away. "Things are still spotty."

"It's okay," John smiled, ducking a shallow nod. "In MI6 archives, they have this wall of photographs -a memorial, of sorts, for those who have served notably in MI6. Now, there are no names, and more often than not it's a photograph of something not the person, but...Peggy is up there. Quartermaster, left right after the War. Only a few years in service, but some of the best damn years Q-Branch had ever seen.

"I'm up there too," John continued, hands clasped in his lap. "I was the first one they called 00, though my designation was triple-oh. Zero-zero-zero. Miss Carter and I were sent to watch over Project: Rebirth."

"I...remember that, a bit," Barnes muttered, squinting. "You came with Steve for our rescue. You were in the Howling Commandos!"

"Yes," John smiled, nodding shallowly. "That I was. Not for very long, mind you, only about six months, but they were some damn good six months."

"Yeah..." Barnes frowned, eyebrows knitting together. "But then...you got sent out on scout detail, and you never came back. Steve was panicking, because he'd never lost someone that close before. He never did recover, not really."

"I set him straight," John told him.

"Because of course the bastard idiot blames himself for every little problem," Barnes sighed, shaking his head.

"Of course," John reached for Sherlock's hand, rubbing his thumb over prominent knuckles. "How are you holding up, love? You alright? I can stop for a bit if you need me to. James needs his rest."

Barnes squinted at the blonde. "You remember my healing rate, right?"

"Of course," John smiled serenely. "Which means you should be all healed and hale after a nice nap. Use the upstairs bedroom -floor should be clean. Pretty open, but the closet is a decent size."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him, while Barnes sighed but rose to his feet. "Wake me in three."

"Aye," John nodded, dropping into the American's vacated seat. "See you then."

Sherlock immediately curled tight against John's side, head tucked into the man's stomach. "Why were you telling him about the closet size? Is he going to sleep in there or something?"

"Probably," John nodded, threading his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "You need a haircut, love."

"I'll get one someday," Sherlock mumbled, fingers tight in the cloth of John's loose jumper. "Were you ever going to tell me?" he asked softly, peeking up out of the corner of his eye. "How come you didn't? Did you not trust me?"

"I don't trust anything, love," John said gently, fingertips rubbing at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "And yes, I was going to tell you, but...how does one tell their significant other that? 'Good morning, dearest, yes, also, by the way, I'm an assassin from an evil organization and my codename is Englishman. How did you sleep?'"

Sherlock snickered, rolling his eyes. "You're brilliant, you would have figured something out."

"Thank you love, but I think you give me too much credit," John smiled, rubbing his fingers soothingly through thick, dark curls.

 

Barnes hummed softly, sinking down on the sofa, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Nice to finally be able to relax, isn't it," John remarked, passing the man a warm mug full of gently steaming tea.

"Not gonna lie, it definitely takes some getting used to," Barnes told him, taking the mug with something like a grateful smile. "I...it's unusual. I don't know what to do with myself. I'm usually snapped to attention, patrolling, something."

"All this time definitely makes one feel a little lost," John agreed, sipping his own tea. "But thank you for trusting me enough to not poison you with your tea."

Barmes smiled wryly, blowing over the cup to try to make it cool faster. "I'd trust you pretty much anywhere, Watson. After all this time -you took good care of me even when I tried to kill you."

"I'd say that's a doctor's prerogative, but that wouldn't be true in this case," John shrugged, tucking his feet up next to him on the sofa to keep them warm. "I happen to like you, is all."

Grinning, Barnes saluted the doctor with his mug. "Feeling's mutual, Doc Wats, and I am very glad of that. Where's your detective?"

"Out doing his rounds with his Network," John shrugged. "He tries to make sure he does at least once a month, to keep on top of all the information, and he was a bit overdue."

"Network?" Barnes cocked his head to the side curiously.

"Homeless Network," John told him, idly stirring his tea. "It's a hell of a lot more useful than it sounds, you know."

"I'm sure," Barnes smiled faintly, sipping his tea. "Why aren't you out with him?"

"He prefers to do it alone," John shrugged. "Also, I make them uneasy, because I'm a stranger and all that."

Humming, Barnes nodded in understanding.

Out on the street, a car door slammed, and the American tensed, sloshing warm tea over his hand.

"Lestrade," John set down his cup, rising to cut the man off in the stairs leading to the flat. "Can I help you, Inspector? Sherlock isn't here, I'm afraid."

"He's taken some of my case files again," Lestrade grumbled, sounding suitably annoyed. "Do you know where they're at?"

"Possibly," John shrugged, turning. "Come on in, but do be careful, please. There's a friend of mine over, we got..." he rubbed at his left shoulder with a grimace, and Lestrade blinked. "Anyway, he doesn't do well with loud, sudden noises. Tread with caution."

"I...do you want me to stay out here...?" Lestrade asked, following cautiously, steps light.

"No, he loves meeting new people," John smiled, ushering the DI through the flat door. "James!"

A man with lush pink lips and chocolate hair piled up in a messy bun peered over the back of the couch. He waved an awkward hand, holding a delicate cup.

"This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," John patted the man's shoulder, pushing him into the sitting room and onto the couch beside the other. "Lestrade, this is an old friend of mine, James Barnes."

"Pleasure," Lestrade said, holding out a hand to shake.

Smiling politely, Barnes transferred the cup to his lap and took the hand. "The pleasure is mine, sir," he said, voice rough with years of smoke inhalation, slipping into the Brooklynite inflections of his youth without a second thought.

"Greg, please," Lestrade shrugged awkwardly, glancing away to find that John had already vanished, hopefully to find the files.

"Then call me James," he picked his cup back up, sipping almost demurely. "How...how did you meet John?"

"Sherlock dragged him to a scene," Lestrade said, hands in his lap. "He posted it to his blog -something about pink, I believe. Then John moved in here, and they're rarely apart for long, now... How did you meet him? I wasn't aware that the doctor had been in a place where Americans and English were working together..."

"It was more a stroke of luck than anything else," Barnes shrugged. "He saved my life..." he motioned to the left side of his torso, where there was a distant lack of anything. "I heard about his discharge a few weeks ago from some mutual friends of ours, and thought I oughtta pay him a visit."

"Glad he did, too," John said, standing before them with a small stack of manilla folders in his hand. "It's nice to see someone from my old life, y'know?"

"Can't...say I do, really," Lestrade admitted, shrugging apologetically and taking the files as he rose to his feet. "Thanks for hunting these down, John. I'll, um, see you around, then, I suppose...?" He smiled awkwardly at the men, escaping the flat as quickly as possible.

After they heard the car door slam again, Barmes remarked, "I unnerved him."

"I did at first, too," John shrugged, sitting down where the inspector had been. "I don't think it's just you or I -he does the same with all new people, I think. More for vets than civilians."

Barmes hummed thoughtfully, sinking back into the sofa with a soft little sigh of contentment.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock, really, this is getting ridiculous," Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "Collecting assassins like stray dogs, really."

Barnes' upper lip curled in a sneer. "You're awful sure of yourself to just come marching in here like some hoity-toity know-it-all, Holmes."

"He is a know-it-all," Sherlock scoffed, not bothering to uncurl from the couch and face his brother. "Obviously."

Barnes rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Sherlock."

"You know both of us had marks out on your head?" John asked conversationally, drawing back the bolt of one of his handguns to measure the pull.

"You were a huge irritant for our old masters," Barnes added. "They paid good money to have you try and be put down."

"I can imagine," Mycroft replied, just as blandly. "Apparently, I've always been an excellent annoyance -just ask Sherlock."

The man in question scoffed, shrugging. "Whatever."

"Do people often try to kill you?" Barnes asked curiously, cocking his head to the side.

"At least once a month," Mycroft admitted, wandering closer, leaving his umbrella by the door. "I have a very well-practiced security team."

John chuckled lightly, setting the gun down and reaching for the pieces of the next one. "What do you need, Mycroft? You don't generally come visit us without some ulterior motive."

Nodding, Mycroft leaned his hip against the sofa Sherlock was laying on and crossed his arms. "I've been in contact with Stark Industries."

Barnes twitched, right hand spasming closed. "Is that so. Let me guess -they wanted English cooperation in helping track down the Winter Soldier."

"Precisely," Mycroft nodded. "I haven't told them anything yet regarding you and your whereabouts, and I don't plan to, but I thought I should warn you three to be on your guard against photographers and such. Stark may be a git, but he's a talented git, and Q can only keep him out of CCTV for so long."

John's eyebrows rose. "You're helping us hide an international fugitive. Why?"

"I always believe in second chances," Mycroft shrugged, pulling away from the couch and returning to the door. "And even I," he rolled his eyes, "can tell that this peace and quiet is doing you worlds of good, Mister Barnes."

Barnes gave a quick smile that was nearly all teeth. "Thanks, Holmes."

He nodded shallowly, grabbing his umbrella and ducking out the door.

 

"...Fuck," Barnes said eloquently, after pulling open the door to reveal Tony Stark.

Tony blinked rapidly, shoving his sunglasses up his face. "What the flying fuck?"

Barnes slammed the door shut again, twisting the lock shut and leaning against it for good measure. He was not prepared for this.

"...Barnes?" Tony called carefully, questioningly, through the door. "That you?"

After a deep, steadying breath, Barnes turned and opened the door a small crack. "What?"

"...Why are you in England?" Tony asked carefully, hands flat against the fronts of his thighs. "Steve's been looking for you."

"HYDRA wasn't just in the US," Barnes said carefully, edging the door open just a smidge more. "And I know Steve's been looking for me, I do watch the news. What are you doing here?"

"I never really got the chance to thank Doc Watson for stitching Cap up a few months back," Tony said, hand twitching like he wanted to make a nervous gesture, but restrained himself. "So I was gonna do it today, but... Where is he?" There was no suspicion in his tone, only honest curiosity.

"Case," Barmes said, tugging the door open the rest of the way. "With Sherlock. Something about that one place, Baskerville."

"The research facility?" Tony arched an eyebrow. "I heard they got some real creepy shit going on in there."

"Of course they do," Barnes scoffed, shuffling back a step. "Come in if you like. I can try my hand at tea, but John's always been better at that sort of thing."

Tony grinned, sweeping into the room and immediately heading over to drop onto the sofa. "Speaking of John, how come you're here? John pick you up too?"

"We served together," Barnes shrugged, shuffling into the kitchen. "John, Steve and I. Same unit."

Tony hummed thoughtfully, reaching for a manila folder on the coffee table in front of him, before he froze. "Wait a sec, you and Steve were- are, World War Two vets. John's, like, thirty."

"Yes," Barnes nodded. "Cryo does wonders for the complexion, doesn't it."

Tony blinked a few more times. "Why was John in cryo."

"Same reason I was," Barnes shrugged, filling the electric kettle. "Captured by HYDRA, mind shaken up a bit, you know how it goes. His conditioning was a lot different than mine, though."

Tony stared.

"He kept his memories," Barnes said conversationally, inspecting a spoon for anything that shouldn't have been on there. "But they were so twisted and warped by the time they were through, he could barely tell what was real and what wasn't anymore. He got a bastardized version of the Serum too -more potent than mine, but nowhere near the quality of St...of Steve's."

"Holy shit," Tony collapsed back, blinking in shock. "And, what, how'd he get away? I assume if he'd still been with HYDRA, the disaster at the Potomac would have been a hell of a lot different."

"John had always been a better hand-to-hand fighter than I," Barnes said with a grim little smile, dropping two teabags into the mugs. "It's all that medical training he took -he knows exactly where to hit to incapacitate a person in the fewest moves possible. If Doc Wats had been there, millions would be dead."

"Why..." Tony licked his lips, aware he was treading into delicate territory. "Why wasn't he?"

"Broke his programming," Barnes smirked, pouring hot water over the tea bags, adding a shot of Sherlock's good whiskey to each mug. "Infiltrated MI6, saw something that reminded him of who he was, and also got shot. Kind of like what happened to me." He stirred in a touch of sugar -double checking to make sure it actually _was_ sugar, because one could never be too sure with Sherlock- and carried the mugs back into the sitting room with one hand.

"Where's your other arm?" Tony asked curiously, taking the mug with both hands.

Barnes jerked his head to a scorched pile of metal resting in front of the hearth. "Sherlock was trying to figure out a way to destroy it."

Tony scowled, setting the mug down and stripping off his suit jacket. "Well Jesus Christ, why the fuck would he do something like _that_?"

"Scientific curiosity, I suppose," Barnes shrugged. "You can poke around with it, if you like."

"Really?" Tony asked eagerly, eyes lighting up.

Barnes snorted, waving his free hand at it. "Have at. That last base totally blew out the elbow joint, so it's not like I can even do anything with it."

"Fucking awesome," Tony grinned, hopping up and scampering over to the machine. He dragged it back to the coffee table, hefting it up and dropping it with a heavy thump on the solid wood top. "This thing weighs a hell of a lot more than I thought it would," he remarked, rolling up his shirtsleeves and digging a small toolkit from the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Soviet tech," Barnes shrugged, drawing his feet up next to him in what was usually John's chair. "Better suited for going to the moon than making limbs, I suppose."

Tony scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I could build a rocket ship in my sleep."

"Remember tech heights in those days, kid," Barnes reminded him, shuffling to settle more comfortably. "Your father was at the frontlines of this shit way back when."

Tony tried not to tense, but failed. "Yeah, that's for sure. Front lines of a lot of things, in those days."

"Kind of an ass," Barnes added conversationally. "Did Stevie ever tell you about the huge crush he had on him? It was almost pathetic, really."

Tony stared at the man. "Steve had a crush on my _dad_?!"

"Yeah," Barnes blinked at him innocently. "He'd always gone for that suave, outspoken type of idiot, really."

"But...Steve's straight...?" Tony blinked rapidly, trying to come to terms with this new information.

"I can tell you for sure that he most definitely is not," Barnes nodded emphatically. "He's also very creative."

Tony blinked a bit more. "Holy shit."

Barnes smirked, eyes closing briefly as the steam from his drink wafted across his nose. "Drink your tea before it gets cold, bastard."

"Ah-! Uh, yeah," Tony reached for the mug, already fiddling with a couple bolts with his other hand.

 

"It smells like an auto store," John told them as soon as he stepped through the door.

Tony jumped, fumbling the screwdriver. "Jesus H Christ!" he yelped, diving to catch the tool before it hit the ground. "Can't you fucking knock?"

"In my own home?" John arched an eyebrow, hanging his jacket on the hook in the hall.

Tony scowled at him.

"Neither of you have moved much in the past...two days," Sherlock said, peering over John's head to see the two in the sitting room.

"Two days?" Tony patted his pants for his cellphone, eyebrows knitting when he couldn't find it.

Barnes held it out to him, not looking up from his book of Chinese mythology. "I handled it, though you should probably call Miss Potts before she starts to think you've been kidnapped. Again."

"Uh," Tony said, staring at the phone in confusion. "Holy shit, two days, really?"

"Yes," Barnes nodded. "I even managed to get you to eat something."

"You did?" Tony blinked at him. "How?"

Barnes arched an eyebrow at him.

"...Ah," Tony looked back down at his phone, swiping quickly through the lock screen and retinal scan. "Hey, when did Steve call?"

"I'm sure it says," John said, moving to the kitchen to put on tea for himself and Sherlock. "Thank you for making sure he didn't starve, James."

Barnes grunted apathetically, shuffling in the chair.

"Hey, hey, speaking of things," Tony climbed awkwardly to his feet, knees and hips protesting mightily. "Barnes said you two served together. Is that bullshit or nah?"

"One-hundred percent true," John nodded, moving around him to pull his favourite mug from the shelf. "I was born in 1917. Served in WWII as MI6, and eventually the Howling Commandos. Fun times."

"You didn't think to tell anyone this last time we were here?" Tony asked, eyebrows knit in consternation. "What gives, man?"

"You really think I would trust someone I didn't know with my very existence?" John asked doubtfully, arching a thin gold eyebrow at the man. "I'm technically old, not dead, not stupid."

"Does Steve know?" Tony asked carefully, leaning his hip against the counter.

"Obviously," John retorted, rolling his eyes. "I had to tell him -way back when, that first time you guys came here because Steve's an idiot and got his stupid ass shot."

Tony whistled in vague admiration. "Tight-lipped little fuckers, the lot of you."

"Loose lips sink ships," Barnes told him seriously, hip-checking him out of the way. "Didn't your aunty teach you that? Miz Carter."

"Peg?" Tony blinked a few times. "I guess she was kind of my aunt... Inasmuch as Jarvis was my uncle..."

Barmes hummed, rinsing out his mug and setting it beside the sink. "Yeah, that one. Howard tried to convince her to have a threesome once."

Tony choked on air. "How..." he wheezed, "how'd that go for him?"

"Took ages for the black eye to go away," Barnes said amicably. "Steve still blush whenever you mention fondue?"

"...Yes...?" Tony frowned faintly. "Why is that?"

"When poor sweet Stevie was still 'uneducated' in the ways of the world," Barnes began seriously, turning and smirking at Tony, who felt his mouth go dry, "he thought 'fondue' was a euphemism for sex. Which is sweet, now that I think about it, but he really should have known better by then."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beware dismembered body parts.

" _Little cousin_ ," John murmured in surprisingly soft Russian, holding out both his hands, palms-up, to the redheaded woman. "Natashenka."

She blinked rapidly, taking a hitching breath, and closed her hands gently around his. "They told me you were dead."

"They told me to kill you if I could," John replied, smiling faintly. "Never bothered to get close enough to try."

"Thank god for that," Natasha laughed, rubbing one eye with the heel of her palm. Sucking in a careful, deep breath, she took a moment to compose herself, before gesturing to the blonde peering from behind her. "You remember Clint, don't you?"

"How could I forget my favorite archer," John scoffed, holding out a hand to the man for a shake.

"Joshua," he said eloquently, more than a little confused. "What the fuck are you doing here, man?"

"Being a little more real," the man shrugged. "Call me John, now. That's my...actual name."

"...Nice...to meet you...John," Clint smiled vaguely, allowing himself to be shuffled forward into the flat. "Where's Tony?"

"Discussing advanced scientific jargon with my flatmate," John shrugged. "I pretend to not understand any of it because it's easier than explaining why I do know."

Natasha hummed consideringly, nodding slowly."Still weight?" she asked.

John rapped his knuckles against the knob of the door, producing a distinctly metal-on-metal sort of sound. "Still weight," he agreed. "Can't fix it."

"Fix what, John?" Sherlock asked immediately, looking away from where he and Tony were scratching some sort of diagram on the coffee table surface.

"Nothing," John smiled and shrugged, gesturing Clint and Natasha into seats in the sitting room, before joining Sherlock on the sofa.

"How do you know Nat, Jo...hn?" Clint asked carefully, knowing that most of Natasha's background was classified, and that he could never dream of knowing the half of it.

John didn't miss the hesitation in the name, but he smiled faintly, then sighed in something resembling regret. "I was one of her teachers," he said.

Clint blinked a few times. "That would make you...really fucking old," he said, finally.

"Look, look, John-o here served with Cap," Tony interrupted excitedly, waving a hand at the unassuming man. "I had JARVIS look up pictures and files and shit, and unless they're cloning defunct army doctors, he's the legit shit."

Natasha scoffed, rolling her eyes. "He's perfectly legitimate -he's the one who trained me in hand-to-hand when I was a child. The only one who would patch me up if I got injured, you remember me telling you about him?"

Clint's mouth rounded in comprehension. "And the one who killed that one guy...?"

"Yes," Natasha flexed a hand against her leg -her only tell, and only in company she felt extremely comfortable with. "That one."

"Ah," Clint looked at John with appraising eyes, biting the inside of his lower lip thoughtfully. "I knew you were cool, but that's some pretty next-level, man. Killing for a kid you had no responsibility towards, even while deep in the throes of mind control?"

"He wasn't a very nice person," John smiled toothily, and Tony hid a shudder.

Sherlock bit his lip to hide a smile.

Arching an eyebrow in an inquisitive look, Natasha asked, "Something amusing?"

"Just...a few days after I met John," the detective began. "There was this cabbie -serial killer, somewhat intelligent, actually. Ah, anyway, John killed him," Sherlock grinned, almost smugly, because he just couldn't not. "Beautiful shot, and of course now I see why, but that doesn't make it any less remarkable."

Natasha's eyebrow didn't waver.

Sherlock didn't even shuffle. "I asked him why he did it, and he said-"

"'Well, he wasn't a very nice man,'" John quoted himself, rolling his eyes. "Suppose I've always had a bit of a sense of justice."

Clint scoffed, "A bit? Understatement of the century."

 

"I'll see you again soon, _little cousin_ ,” John said softly, wrapping Natasha in a tight hug. "It has been good to see you. I am glad you are well."

"I am more so," Natasha said against his shoulder, hands clenched tight in the back of his wine-colored jumper. "You should come to the tower, _elder cousin_. Bring your pet detective with you."

John laughed delightedly, shaking his head. "My pet, huh...well, I suppose I might consider it. In any case, I shall see you soon."

Stepping away, Natasha gave one last wave farewell before boarding the Quinjet, and both Sherlock and John watched as it took off from the private airstrip at Heathrow.

"You knew many of the Avengers," Sherlock said conversationally as they both climbed into the nondescript black car Mycroft had offered for the return ride. "You'd met all of them except Stark and Doctor Banner."

"Actually," John shook his head, tugging Sherlock to lay down in his lap -to which the man easily acquiesced, eyes closing to half-mast as the blonde threaded competent fingers through his thick, dark curls. "I have met Doctor Banner before -I was a HYDRA man looking to make him join our ranks. This was just after the incident of him becoming the Hulk. He obviously refused, but...it was a fun journey. He just knew me as a man that kept Ross's pet bastards off his back."

Humming thoughtfully, Sherlock nestled closer to John's stomach, curling obscenely long fingers in the thick weave of his jumper. "How did you get so fond of these, John?" he asked drowsily.

"Jumpers?" John cocked his head to the side. "I'm not sure. I think I always liked them. Even back in the forties, they called me the wolf in sheep's clothing, because of my penchant for fuzzy jumpers."

"...Accurate," Sherlock admitted, glancing up with a small smile.

John chuckled, the light reaching his eyes, and something deep inside Sherlock was exceptionally glad to see that.

 

"Hello, Doctor," Jim Moriarty purred, crouching in front of the man chained quite thoroughly to the locker room bench. "How are you today? I hope we didn't inconvenience you too terribly."

John rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug, utterly uncaring. ''Not to terribly, no. I was just on my way to go pick up nicotine patches for our favorite detective, is all."

Moriarty hummed thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. "You're awfully calm, Doctor. Are you okay?"

"Perfect," John grinned toothily. "How are you, Moriarty? You know, you're not nearly as tall as you seem."

Moriarty arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "And I seem how tall?"

"Oh, y'know, just taller," John shrugged. "With an ego like yours, I almost expected you to be as tall as Sherlock. But you're just a tiny little Irishman."

A surprisingly firm hand struck the side of John's face, snapping his head to the side. "You will hold your tongue or lose it," Moriarty hissed, eyes dark.

John smirked, but silenced. He knew the man's type -he may dislike getting his hands dirty, but he was perfectly capable of dishing out retribution wherever he saw fit.

"First intelligent thing you've done all day," Moriarty told him, rising to his feet and snapping his fingers. "Sebby, darling, get this man in his evening wear, if you would?"

The scarred man nodded, tugging a bulky vest out of one of the lockers.

 

Sherlock stared at the man before him, confusion warring with fury. "John?"

The man rolled his eyes, pulling open his saggy parka to reveal the semtex-coated vest. "What would you like me to have him say next?" he asked, sounding almost bored.

Sherlock scoffed weakly, rolling his eyes. "Moriarty! Try again!"

"Oh, how rude," the criminal pouted audibly, emerging from the shadows. "And even after I went through all the trouble of wrapping him up for you."

"Honestly I'm surprised he even let you capture him," Sherlock said conversationally, holding out the slim black USB drive. "Are you slipping, John?"

"Hardly," the blonde scoffed, crossing his arms after shrugging out of the parka. "Bloody hot, that thing. I just figure I should let you have your fun and all that." Over a dozen little red dots appeared on his chest, right over the biggest bundle of explosives.

Moriarty scowled, tossing the drive into the pool uncaringly. "Who cares about that -what are you two nattering on about?"

"Oh, hadn't you heard?" Sherlock asked innocently, blinking wide eyes.

"Your Seb is the grandson of one of my former mates," John said lightly. "Babushka Morankiva, eh?" he called, voice suddenly booming.

One of the red dots on John's chest wavered, and a low voice growled, "You leave my grandmother out of this, you bastard."

"Alright, alright," John held his hands up in surrender. "Next time you see her though, why don't you tell her the Englishman says hello, hmm?"

Half of the red dots dropped, and one sniper could be heard to say, "fuck this, fuck no, I'm out, I am _out_."

Moriarty pouted, crossing his arms. "The Englishman? Really? What sort of fancy codename is that?"

"You'll see," John hummed delightedly, eyes scrunching shut.

Huffing in disgust, Moriarty spun on his heel and stormed towards one of the back doors. "You are so bloody boring, the both of you. I wanted something fun, not spouting off broken poetry and mentions of your nationality. Seb!" he yelled, throwing up a hand. "Torch the place!"

"Oh, shit," John said, already stripping off the vest and dashing towards Sherlock and the door. He hit the pavement with a smack, Sherlock protected underneath him, and the air overhead turned a brilliant orange.

 

"Hey," John stroked his fingers through Sherlock's sweaty hair, brushing stringy locks off his pale forehead. "You know I would never betray you, right?"

Sherlock hummed, turning his face to John's calloused palm. "I know that now," he said drowsily, draping his cuffed hands across the man's lap. "I was just...surprised. Because I think I know you probably pretty well, and I...don't think I would have ever really recovered if you had betrayed me. Not really."

"I know, love," John murmured, tracing his fingertips lightly through some blood streaks left across Sherlock's slender, milk-pale back. "I am going to destroy him, when I get the chance. He threatened to burn the heart out of you, did you know? While he was doing the whole silly peacock thing before you ever got there."

Sherlock snorted, eyes closed. "Like to see him try."

Humming vaguely, still threading his fingers through his partner's hair, John remarked, almost to himself, "I think I might get you his heart, lovely..." he pursed his lips, glancing down the almost-asleep detective. "His heart...for threatening to even touch you. His eyes...that see too much. And his tongue, bleeding silver all over the place. Yes," he bent, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's temple, and slid off the bed.

Sherlock grumbled, groping across the empty expanse of bed for the warm body he was most familiar with.

John tucked his pillow under Sherlock's chin, smiling when the detective immediately latched on. "I'll be back soon, love," he said softly, pressing a chaste kiss to the man's pale forehead.

Mumbling softly, Sherlock nuzzled closer to the pillow, sighing contentedly.

Turning away, John reached for his phone on the bedside table, already dialing up a number he'd memorized months ago.

_"Q here, who are you, and how the fuck did you get my personal mobile number?"_

Sherlock woke slowly, drowsily, blinking gummed-up eyes and yawning widely. "John?" he called, shuffling upright. "Where are you?"

When he got no reply, Sherlock frowned, shuffling into an upright position. "John?! Where are you?" Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and tossing the handcuffs to the side, Sherlock stood, already reaching for his favorite silk dressing gown. "John!"

Flinging open the door, Sherlock stared at the utterly empty flat. "John...?" He swallowed, suddenly fearful.

He ran to his phone, calling up his younger brother. "Q! Where is John?"

" _Ah, he said you would call_ ," the man replied, sounding far too calm, in Sherlock's opinion.

"Where is he, Q?" Sherlock asked tightly, free hand clenched into a tight fist.

" _Probably halfway to France by now_ ," Q said idly. " _He said not to worry, brother dearest, and that he'll be back soon. He just has...a mess to clean up, I think he said. Yes, that sounds about right. He didn't give me any details_ ," he sounded almost petulant, here. " _But he did manage to persuade double-oh-seven that it would be worthwhile to go on...hiatus...again_."

"Oh," Sherlock said weakly, sinking back onto the bed. "He...did, did he. He said that. Can you get your eyes on them?"

" _Of course I can_ ," Q scoffed, his eye-roll audible. " _But I'm not going to, not yet. I trust them to not get killed, and they're trusting us to do our jobs. Also_ ," he added, with a creak that sounded like he was sitting upright. " _He told me to tell you to check the fridge. What's that all about?_ "

Rising slowly to his feet, Sherlock cautiously opened the plain white door.

He stared.

The eyes stared back, pinned together on a plain glass plate with a tongue and something that looked a little scorched. It might have once been a heart.

A little note was propped up against the milk, right beside the body parts.

Thought you might get more use of these bits than the bastard whom they belonged to ever did. What about you?

"Oh, John," Sherlock smiled, watery, one hand pressed to his mouth, because he was a sentimental idiot, and he really liked that man far too much.

" _Sherlock?_ " Q said over the phone, sounding more and more worried. " _Everything alright?_ "

"Well, my lover has just gone out to attempt to dismantle a multicontinental criminal organization, and he left me the eyes and tongue of the leader as a farewell gift."

There were several long moments of silence. " _I can see why he took James,_ " Q finally responded.

Sherlock snickered, leaning against the table. He pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle the giggles, but eventually couldn't help it, guffawing loudly.

" _Suppose he'll fit right in, then_ ," Q finally said, also failing miserably to reign in his humor. " _God, what would Mummy think now, her two youngest laughing like drunk teenagers over your boyfriend leaving you dead parts like he was a bloody cat._ "

Sherlock snorted again, rolling his eyes. "She's probably rolling in her grave."

" _Yes_..." Q hummed, sounding content. " _I'll do my level best to keep an eye on them, Sherlock, I promise. I'll keep you posted._ "

"Thanks, Tris," Sherlock sighed, shoulders drooping. "Suppose that's all I can ask of you."

" _You're welcome,_ " Q said, vaguely sing-songish, just before he hung up.

 

**COMPLETE PART ONE**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock and the Silver Tower", coming soon  
> It's gonna be a helluvalot longer


End file.
